At breakfast time, eight o’clock, we moored in the mouth of the Bure, just alongside the quay by the ancient North Gate, which has looked down upon the muddy old river for the past five centuries, its head held high in the air, as if wishing to avoid the assortment of smells which accompany the floating garbage sailing slowly towards the sea.

How impatient I was for the tide to run up and bear me home to Barton, about twenty miles from our present moorings, and at last it did turn.  To give it time to gain strength we waited a full hour, then, spreading our joyous sails, away we sped.  I might say we tried to rival the express rate, but our actual progress was very parliamentary.  We drew only three feet of water, but with a slack tide under us we touched ground several times between North Gate and the One-mile-house, so had to be very careful.  From thence onward we had deep water and progressed faster.

It was nearly two o’clock as we lowered sail to pass Acle Bridge, and only about half our journey completed.  Stepping the masts, hoisting sail, and having a glass of good Norfolk ale at the little inn alongside the bridge occupied half an hour, but now the river was deeper and the wind fresher, we went bowling along capitally, till taking the turn before reaching St. Benet’s Abbey, where we lost the favour of the wind.  The flat miles of marsh land looked strange to me after hilly, toilsome Jethou.  But now I was nearing home, and knew every tree and fence, every break in the river wall, and every house we passed, and loved them all; greeting them as familiar friends as we glided silently by them.

St. Benet’s Abbey passed we turn into the river Ant, and again travel along with a fair wind till bothering old Ludham Bridge bars our progress; so we have again to “down masts” to pass under the single gothic arch, which has been the ultima Thule to many a large wherry.  Up sail once more, and on we glide up the tortuous narrow stream, till passing quiet, quaint, little Irstead Church, with its two or three attendant cottages, we at last enter Barton Broad.[7] Now my excitement gives way to another feeling, that of suspense and fear as to how I shall find the old folks at home.  Are they well?  Who can tell what may have taken place during the past six months since my father wrote me, “All’s well.” I feel a sudden chill as I think of her from whom I have been absent for over eighteen months, and reproach myself for not having communicated to her in some way or other.  Is she well, and is she still mine?  Then my dear old mother, what of her?  With these thoughts crowding through my brain I feel as if I could leap out of the boat and swim the remaining half mile, so slowly does she go through the shallow water.

S-s-s-ssh, bump! and we come to a sudden stop, for my reverie has caused me to neglect my helm, and there we are, fast on a submerged muddy reed bed.